


Sherlock and Martha

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Harold and Maude (1971), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Character Death, Coming of Age, F/M, Masturbation, SEX!, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: This is a fusion between “Sherlock” and “Harold and Maude”. That’s enough to go on for those who have seen the cult classic film. If you haven’t, searching it will spoil it for you but I don’t think you would enjoy it any less. Or go forth without looking it up (you don’t need to) and mind the tags.





	1. Don’t be shy— just let your feelings roll on by...

**Author's Note:**

> I have left many of the more iconic lines intact, so if you think something is particulary well-written it might be me, or it might be Colin Higgins. I am still thinking about how to best incorporate Cat Steven’s remarkable soundtrack, so there may be changes to it to better incorporate those songs. Open to suggestions.

[“Don’t Be Shy” https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5s0FgUZY484]

"You! Come help me with this, would you?" As Martha Hudson sighs, her breath forms a thick cloud of water vapor in the chilly morning air. She scowls at this fresh evidence of the bitter cold before she humphs and tries to get the young man’s attention once more. "Yes, you! Tall, dark hair, in the very _warm-looking_ black wool coat and navy scarf! Come help me with this! I can't break through the layer of ice on top."

Sherlock Holmes interrupts his weekly trudge back from the library and spins around with more grace than one might expect on the icy sidewalk. She had been calling him after all! The woman is shoveling her driveway, where the plows had unceremoniously deposited a huge pile of hardened snow at its end, blocking it off completely. Her vehicle is protected by a tarp, but there is a good two feet's worth of snow stacked upon its roof.

She tries to channel her frustration by driving the snow shovel down like a pitchfork into hay, but it refuses to yield. "Can't be out here shoveling it at three a.m. when it’s still falling steady, but leave it be overnight and it freezes over into a hard shell. Good for a nice dessert, bad for a driveway. And then if it isn’t cleared by noon you get a damn citation. I need someone strong enough to dig under the whole thing and flip it over."

Sherlock gives one last glance around before moving towards her. It's not that he doubts his strength— his mother had insisted on martial arts training for both his physical health and as a confidence builder— but rather he... well, yes, actually, he doubts his strength. But surely a male in his late teens would have a far better chance at breaking through the layers of ice than a...how old was she? Late seventies? A seventy-five-year-old woman. Shoveling could potentially cause a sudden increase in blood pressure and heart rate, and with the cold air constricting blood vessels and decreasing oxygen supply, she might just end up with a potentially fatal heart attack. Boulder’s altitude wouldn’t help matters, though a woman her age was likely well-acclimated to it. Dead bodies are fascinating, yes, but he isn’t so eager to witness the creation of one. He jogs over to help.

The woman smiles as Sherlock examines the snowdrift as if it were prey and he a mountain lion and then attempts to wedge the shovel underneath. “They wouldn’t give you a citation.”

“Like hell they wouldn’t. They give me one every year. Right around this time, it seems. I think they wait for it.”

“You have an enemy who would turn you in?”

“An enemy? No. Enemies? Yes. I make my opinions known. Well-behaved women seldom make history.”

“Why would anyone want to make history anyway?” He pushes down on the snow shovel like a lever. It won’t budge. “And I assume you don’t have magnesium chloride on hand?"

"I have _sodium_ chloride."

"Won’t work when temperatures are lower than 18 degrees Fahrenheit. Approximately -7.77 Celsius, if you prefer.”

"Really?"

"Really."

"Damn, I suppose it is that cold, isn't it. Oh! I read somewhere that if you combine a teaspoon of dish soap, a tablespoon of rubbing alcohol and a half-gallon of water in a bucket and pour it over—“

"It will be even more slippery than its current state and will freeze over again." His mouth twisted as he put as much scorn into the words as he could muster. "Internet 'solution'?"

"Yes. And don't make faces like that in this weather or it just might freeze that way."

"I wouldn’t recommend using that. What you need is some form of salt, not just alcohol. Not in such a low concentration, at any rate. And I cannot imagine the purpose of the dish soap." He pulls at his gloves, which have slid down and are threatening to expose the upper part of his wrists. "Not that you'd have any, but potassium chloride might work, albeit slowly. Calcium chloride would be ideal, but—"

"Wait. I have calcium chloride."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "You do? Oh! Do you can a lot of pickles, then?"

"No, but I do make a lot of homebrew." She smiles and turns back toward the house. "Come on inside, then, and warm up a bit while you help me make the right proportions."

Sherlock does.


	2. There's so much left to know, and I'm on the road to find out

[“I’m On the Road to Find Out”:https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ycqEb8lfic0]

 

"This place used to be a mortuary. Now they call it an ‘eatuary’. Clever, isn’t it? There's the original sign, by the door. Buffalo Bill's body was stored here while Wyoming and Colorado fought over who got to keep it. He ended up on Lookout Mountain.” She tilts her head vaguely in the direction of Golden.

“Buffalo Bill?”

“Nevermind.”

Sure enough, just to the left of the door is a sign that reads Olinger Mortuaries, with the O and the M blacked out, a slash through the second 'o' to make it resemble an 'e' and the 'r' somehow transformed into an 'a' until it read 'linger eatuaries'. Sherlock can’t decide if it is admirably clever or annoyingly so. He decides either way constitutes some degree of cleverness, and gives a quick nod. "Really, this wasn’t necessary—"

"Of course it is. You did a good deed. You should be rewarded. That isn’t the way the universe always works, but it is how it _should_ work, and I will do my part to make sure it all goes that way as often as possible."

"Oh. I... Well, thank you... I suppose?"

"You're quite welcome, Dear." She watches Sherlock as he surveys the room. "Does it bother you? That this was once a house of death, and now it's a place to celebrate the senses?"

"Death does not alarm me."

"Nor should it. Any more than your birth did, anyway. A shift in consciousness, and then another adventure. But I didn't choose this place for that gimmick. The food happens to be amazing."

Sherlock looks at the menu. It is comprised of small plates from around the globe. He has just finished reading the page when Martha says brightly, "I think you should get the duck bao. Oh, and the iced sour cherry soup is excellent. Yes. You should get those. If you aren’t sure what you want, that is."

"Sounds fine."

The waiter comes by with a brown-tinted flask which has 'Water: Contains 11.188 percent hydrogen and 88.842 percent oxygen, by weight' written on the side in somewhat cautionary lettering. Sherlock smiles slowly.

Martha’s eyes light up. "Oooh, is it wrong? Someone who knows all about what type of salt melts snow best probably has something to say about that label."

"Wrong? Perhaps. The error here would be that it is highly improbable it is purified water, or had been processed in a manner where it would contain solely hydrogen and oxygen, as it claims. Even if it is distilled, air naturally dissolves in water. Other gases _may_ account for up to 0.001% of the total mass. You must ‘de-gas’ the water if you want to eliminate the influence of the dissolved air. There are most definitely trace amounts of carbon dioxide and nitrogen in there, and the presence of carbon dioxide would raise the oxygen content slightly. Maybe even to 88.843– I'd have to do the math to be certain. Had they stopped at one decimal place, or even two, they would have been accurate. By taking it to three, it has become suspect, although the percentage is still likely negligible enough to require a fourth decimal place before it would be detectable. They got greedy."

"Greed in the name of art is no vice."

"With that attitude, I'm sure many counterfeiters wish you had been on their jury. And... that sounds vaguely familiar. Is it a well-known quote I'm missing?"

"A sort of a play on 'Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice.' My ex-husband used to work for Goldwater."

"Who is Goldwater?"

"Knowledge of chemistry, immense. Knowledge of politics, feeble."

"Politics is useless. And boring. Chemistry is— neither."

"Well, in your defense, it _is_ quite a ways before your time. Conservative politician out of Arizona. He lost, so he isn’t really all that important. But back to the concept itself. Do you not appreciate devotion to an aesthetic?"

"I do. Sometimes. But not with a callous disregard for the facts. There is art to be found within good science. They can even be indistinguishable. Like music."

"You play an instrument?"

"Violin. Artistic expression, but it requires scientific study and technical mastery to earn that right."

"I wish I could play an instrument."

"I could... show you... a bit."

"That would be lovely."

The waiter comes back and takes their orders. Sherlock goes with the recommendation of the soup and the bao. Martha has a roasted beet salad. "I'm afraid I’ve inherited my British great-grandmother’s lack of finesse when it comes to preparing vegetables in any way besides drowning them in boiling water. Growing up in the Ukraine gave me a kind of affinity for beets, but I have no idea how to prepare them.”

“You have no accent.”

“I left when I was young. Anyway, since I don’t cook vegetables well myself, I have made a commitment to eat them whenever I go out. I don't mind when they taste this good. I do make excellent desserts though. And a fantastic breakfast, should you ever have the opportunity to try it."

"Mrs. Hudson, I—"

"I know Emily Post says divorced women can use Mrs. and their husband’s surname, but...that never seemed right to me. But I guess I can't say Ms. seems quite right either. I would prefer it if you just called me Martha. Or Mattie. I sometimes use Mattie."

"Martha, I'm...very flattered by your interest, but..." Sherlock waits for Martha to interrupt in protest, claiming no, no that wasn't what she had meant at all and for him to insinuate that she had been flirting was highly inappropriate, but forgivable. Young minds always thinking about that sort of thing. But she doesn’t. She just smiles and waits. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say next.

"But what, Dear? That part is important. But I'm too old for you? But you aren’t interested in women? But, you don't want the hassle of any sort of relationship? But...what?"

Sherlock looks up at her, and speaks as if he is deciding what he meant himself as the words find their way out. Because, in a way, he is. "But. I don't know. How I feel."

"Well, then...that's fine. No one is suggesting you make any sort of decision. I just wanted to let you know— and you can choose to accept or reject it of course— that I am open to all possibilities. I used to— Oh, here comes the soup! Now, get just a bit of the yogurt in the mix. What do you think?"

“Tart, but refreshing. I would have thought something chilled would be odd in the winter, but it isn’t. I've never tried a chilled fruit soup before and it's... different. And... good."

 

“And I apologise. Flirting can be fun, but it isn’t for everyone. I enjoy flirting and romance and sex. The order varies.”

"Shouldn’t we be in a relationship before we… did that."

"That? If you’re referring to sex as _that,_ then we shouldn’t be doing it at all. You should forget I asked."

"But I didn’t mean I..."

"No, no, no, this is not one of those times where the older person picks someone young and inexperienced—" Sherlock makes as if to protest, but Martha raises her index finger and continues, “Yes, I know, I can tell. As I was saying, it’s not one of those times where the older person says, ‘Oh, if only you weren’t so _young!_ Oh! The things we could _do_!’ And then sets you up to try to prove that you are experienced enough, and ready, and...no. I've been on the other end of that game, and it took me a long time to see it for what it was. What I mean is, if you aren’t fully comfortable with sex yet, you need to develop that comfort level first. Because you want to. Not as some grand experiment, not because you think it’s about time you lose that stupid virgin label, and not to prove to anyone else that you can. So... enough of that topic. Maybe we will revisit it in the future. For now, let’s work on our friendship, shall we? I think we have good potential there."

"What were you going to say? Before the soup?"

"Just that I was a dancer once. Do you dance?”

“What?”

“Do you dance? Or sing?”

“Eh, no.”

“No.” Martha smiles.“I thought not. And I don’t mean I danced like a ballerina or partners ballroom with all the fancy dresses and the dancing in high heels. I was a dancer in a strip club. Older people, well, everyone seems to forget that every single one of us had lives before we got "old". We are the same people, only we know a little bit more about how to get through life. We aren’t all doddering, although we can dodder when it suits our purpose. Like when I get tired of waiting for the light to change and I just run the damn thing and I look just the right amount of confused for the policeman to decide not to give me a ticket. And there were a few times I had, well, something not exactly legal in my possession, and I had stuffed it in my bra. No safer place on Earth than an old lady's bra.” Martha finishes off her beet salad and wipes her face with the cloth napkin.

"I think I stopped counting after 40, and not in the way people joke about staying 39 forever as if 40 was something to ward off with crosses and garlic. I mean I simply no longer cared how old I was. Some things I even do much better now than when I was younger, to be honest. I think maybe you can relate to that a bit. Getting better at things over time."

Martha smiles broadly. "Oh, but now I sound like I’m flirting again. And I don’t mean to be. What I'm trying to say is, my age didn’t rob me of my sense of self or my sense of adventure. And I am... even more comfortable being me than I was when I worried all about finding my place in the world. I have my place in the world. Of course now my age shows more each year, my mind and body are in decline— I'm not in denial about it— but it functions well enough to do whatever I want it to do. So far. I am 79. Can’t count on that to go on forever. Now, you better finish up that bao before it ends up as cold as the soup. Don’t let it sit around too long."

Sherlock takes a bite of the barbecued duck in the steamed bun. The sauce is far lighter than he had expected, and sweet without being cloying. He eats it quickly, then returns to the soup. It tastes off now. "I think I ate them out of order and messed it up somehow?"

"Just drink some more water. Palate cleanser. I'm sorry, I should have thought more about that. Well...can’t go back in time. Next time around, we will both be more aware.” She pauses. “Do you think you can teach me to play a real song? Not like ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ or ‘Row Your Boat’.”

“I could show you how to play ‘Ode to Joy’?”

“Oh, that will be lovely. Let’s start soon! Tomorrow?”

“I can’t. I have an appointment.”

“Well then, Tuesday.”

“That’s fine.”

“Need a ride?”

“No. I brought my car.” Sherlock deactivates the alarm on the black Mini Clubman, which vaguely resembles a hearse, made more so by the addition of a skull and crossbones sticker on the back window. Martha walks across the street to the red corvette, parked at an angle. He is still buckling up as she drives off, swerving down the road, accompanied by the screech of burning rubber.


	3. But sometimes you have to moan when nothing seems to suit ya

[“I’m On the Road to Find Out”:https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ycqEb8lfic0]

 

The psychiatrist's office is beige, sparsely furnished, and impossibly boring. 

“So, tell me, Sherlock, how many crime scenes have you visited?”

“An accurate number would be difficult to gauge.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, some aren’t crime scenes at all. Just deaths. Dull.”

“Just give me a rough estimate.”

Well, a rough estimate... I'd say 50.”

“50.”

“A rough estimate.”

“And staging your own version of the murders...were those all done for your family’s benefit?

“I wouldn't say ‘benefit’.”

“No, I suppose not. How do you feel about your brother?”

“I don't think I'm getting through to Mycroft like I used to.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Yes. It does.”

“Why?”

“I put a lot of effort into these things.”

“Ah, yes.”

“And a lot of time.”

“I'm sure. But what else do you do with your time? Do you go to school?”

“No.”

“What about dating?”

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Oh. Well, how do you spend your day?”

“You mean when I'm not recreating a…”

“Yes. What kind of things do you do?”

“I do play the violin—”

“I see. But why this fascination with death?”

“I don't know.”

“Is it the permanence? Other people’s reactions?

“I don’t know.”

“That's very interesting, Sherlock,” he says, not looking up from his notebook. “And I think very illuminative. There seems to be a definite pattern emerging. Your fondness for murder scenes and death seems indicative of your present emotional state, your self-destructive urges and your alienation from regular social interaction.”

Sherlock tugs down on his sleeves where the track marks would still show if one were to look closely enough. He is wearing long sleeves and his usual suit jacket, but he still feels exposed.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“And of course this pattern, once isolated, can be coped with. Recognize the problem and you are halfway to its solution. But tell me, what do you do for fun? What activity gives you a different sense of enjoyment than the others? What do you find fulfilling? What gives you that certain satisfaction?”

“I go to funerals.”


	4. Kick out the devil's sin, pick up, pick up a good book now

[“I’m On the Road to Find Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ycqEb8lfic0 ]

Sherlock sits inconspicuously in the back pew, where he can watch the mourners file in. One of them must have done this. Had to have. Long-term poisoning, once a week at least. Retired, so no coworkers. That leaves immediate family and poker buddies.

About ten minutes into the ceremony, Sherlock is startled when someone sits right beside him.

“Mrs.— Martha!”

“So, what did I miss? Just the Dearly Beloved part, I hope. Nothing too personal yet?”

“Did you know Arthur Froser?”

“No. But I heard he wasn’t a particularly nice man.”

“And yet, you are attending his funeral.”

“I especially like to attend the funerals of not very nice people. Reminds me that there is sometimes a goodness we aren’t privileged to see that others did. Then you can see the whole person.”

“What if he was a truly horrible person who deserved to die. Would you still waste your time looking for the good in someone?”

“Truly evil?”

“Yes. Such people exist. Use your imagination!”

“I don’t have to.”

“So now is when you say even Hitler had a dog who loved him?”

Martha pulls her sleeve up to reveal a series of numbers tattooed on her forearm. “If Hitler’s dog actually did love him he was probably faking it, and I don’t blame him one bit. I think I would have very much liked to have seen Hitler’s funeral. To see with my own eyes that that bastard was no longer part of this world.”

Sherlock winces at his own stupidity, looks like he is about to make a comment and thinks better of it. After a few moments’ silence he quietly says, “I didn’t— I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. So…” Martha rummages in her purse. “Tangerine? Licorice?”

“Uh. No thank you.”

“I heard he was eighty years old. I'll be eighty next week. A good time to move on, don't you think?”

Sherlock’s attention is focused solely on the row of grieving relatives. He applies just enough focus to reply, “ I don’t know,” before mumbling to himself about the sister’s fingernails. 

“I mean, seventy-five is too early, but at eighty-five, well, you're just marking time and you may as well look over the horizon.” Martha listens to the preacher drone on about something from Job and frowns. “Well it looks like the family isn’t going to be speaking, and I didn’t come for the sermon. Time to move on. Unless you wanted to—?”

“I came to hear what the family had to say and they won't be talking. The death seemed a bit suspicious. The timing. I go to open-casket funerals so I can look for clues visible on the bodies. The coroner, Phillip Anderson, won’t let me observe his work privately.”

“Shame. Stunting young minds.”

“I may have tried to take home a toe once.”

“Oh. I see.”

Martha heads down the aisle and nearly runs smack into a standup cutout of a somber Blessed Virgin and Child placed in the corner of the funeral home. With one swoop she takes out a felt pen from Sherlock’s suit jacket and draws a happy face on Mary. Sherlock’s jaw drops. “They never give the poor thing a chance to laugh. Heaven knows she has a lot to be happy about. Mother of God and all.”

The priest, having finished his sermon, turns the microphone over to the man’s younger brother, who begins by thanking everyone for attending, and then he heads toward the back of the church. He stops to look at Mary, and then at Martha. 

“Did you just...draw...a smiley face...on the Blessed Virgin?”

“Oh, yes. How do you like it?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Oh, don't be too discouraged. Aesthetic appreciation can take a little time.” She turns back to Sherlock. “What a delight it is, Sherlock, to bump into you again. I knew we were going to be good friends the moment I saw you. You go to funerals often, don't you?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Well, I’ll see you next time.”

“There’s—”

“Yes?”

“There’s going to be another storm coming in. I’ll help you clear your driveway tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you! I’ll be sure to make some gingersnaps tonight, then.”


	5. You know love is better than a song

[“Don’t Be Shy” https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5s0FgUZY484]

 

Martha hadn’t made gingersnaps that night. She makes them fresh in the morning instead. They are on the cooling rack as Sherlock comes inside, having finished clearing the driveway of its inch-and-a-half of loosely-packed snow. He removes his coat and gloves and juggles a mini-cookie from hand to hand before popping it in his mouth. It is far too hot to eat, and she playfully admonishes him for it.

“Is your mouth lined with asbestos?”

“Some things are worth the initial discomfort.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for my lesson.”

“I’ll need to warm my fingers first.” He rubs his hands together, then rolls his elegant fingers. “And the violin’s reputation for being exceedingly difficult for beginners is all due to the amount of pressure on the bow. People want to press down hard, and that makes it sputter across the strings. If you are gentle, you’ll do fine.” He takes his out of its case. “Here, just...hold it between your shoulder and your chin. No, don’t push your shoulder up. If you truly need extra support we can use a shoulder rest, but your neck isn’t especially high. You can do without. Just be sure to cradle it in your left hand a bit.”

Martha relaxes her shoulder. 

“See. You can hold it just fine. If you were playing for a long time I’d have you let go and balance it using just your chin and shoulder and we’d make adjustments, but this will do for now. If you want to keep practicing—”

“No, this is all I want. Just to make some simple music.”

“Now, hold the bow like this. There are better ways, but, again, for our purposes—”

“It’s good enough. Yes, okay I can do this.”

“And bring your arm around so it hits the string between here...and here. Bend your elbow.” 

Martha positions the bow on the string and giggles. 

“Okay now, extend this arm out. Just straighten your elbow and it will move across the string.” Martha hits two strings at once, but the sound is full and rich.

“Hey! That’s not bad!”

“Well, it isn’t ideal for playing the song, but, no. It’s not bad. Pivot your arm up or down slightly until you can hit just one string.” Sherlock moves in close behind her and wraps himself around her back, reaching to help her change the angle at which the bow makes contact. “Then draw it across.” He moves in closer still, leans his head against hers, and gently places his hand atop her grip. “Like this.”

She leans back into him.

“I’ll work the bow. You put your fingers on the tape.” 

Martha looks down and sees the bits of blue painter’s tape across the instrument. 

“First finger down.” 

She presses it as he moves the bow down, then up again. 

“Now the next finger.” 

Martha removes her first finger and places a second one down.

“No, keep the first one there. Just add the second one alongside it. Both fingers on the string.” He draws the bow again. “Now three fingers.”

They continue in this way until Martha figures out the right amount of pressure needed to make a clear sound. 

“I’m going to let go. You can take it from here. I’ll call out the notes.”

Sherlock calls out the order for her fingers as Martha tries bowing on her own. She slides it off the strings and Sherlock rushes in from behind again to guide her, barely touching the top of her hand. “I’ve got you.”

Martha smiles. “Did you know the medieval church banned violin music for a time because it was considered too romantic and brought on lustful thoughts?”

“No, I’d never heard that.”

“Oh, well that’s because it isn’t true. But you’ve got to admit, a well-played violin is a treat for the gods. I bet Apollo got all the ladies. Or was it Orpheus?”

“Apollo taught Orpheus, it was a lyre, and Orpheus only wanted one lady.”

“Oh well. Close enough.”

“Try it on your own now.” Sherlock hovers around her carefully, not quite touching as she makes it through the first line. “Beautiful.”


	6. Don't wear fear or nobody will know you're there

[“Don’t Be Shy” https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5s0FgUZY484]

 

“I have a limited amount of time to discuss this, Sherlock, but I do want to inform you that Mother and I have had a discussion and we both are rather concerned about your future. You have led a very carefree, idle, happy life up to the present — the life of a child. But it is time now to put away childish things and take on adult responsibilities.” Mycroft turns toward the hallway as their mother enters the room, clears his throat, and continues. “We would all like to sail through life with no thought for tomorrow, but that cannot be. We have our duty. Our obligations. Our principles. In short, Sherlock, we think it is time you chose a course of study. There is a personality inventory I have procured to assist you in determining your strengths and weaknesses.” 

She faces them each in turn, smiles, and takes a seat in an overstuffed armchair, crossing her legs— a clipboard on her lap. “Now just answer the questions honestly, to the best of your ability, Sherlock. No pressure. Remember, this is just a guide.” She removes the pen from the clipboard and presses hard on its surface as she speaks. “Now... The first question is, ‘Are you uncomfortable meeting new people?’ Well, I think that's a ‘yes.’ Don't you agree, Sherlock? Even an ‘Absolutely yes.’ We'll put down ‘A’ on that.” She glances at Mycroft, who is sitting at an antique secretarial with a modern laptop upon it. “Mark ‘A’.” 

His brother nods. 

“Now, number two - ‘Do you often invite friends to your home?’ Now, you never do, Sherlock. Absolutely no. Three - ‘Do you enjoy participating in clubs and social organizations?’ You don't, do you? Absolutely no. Four - ‘Do you enjoy spending a lot of time by yourself?’ Absolutely yes. Five - ‘Do you have ups and downs without obvious reason?’ You do, don't you, Sherlock? Absolutely yes. Six - ‘Do you remember jokes and take pleasure in relating them to others?’ You don't, do you, Sherlock? Absolutely no. ‘Seven - ‘Do you often get the feeling that perhaps life isn't worth living?’ Hmm. What do you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stares blankly at his mother, then crosses to the sofa, removing a slipper from beneath it and pulling out a small pistol which had been tucked inside. He checks the chamber and, finding it empty, crosses the room—passing in front of the secretarial where his brother is dutifully entering ‘his’ responses— and heads to the mantlepiece. There, he removes a single bullet from an intricately-carved wooden case atop it and returns to his seat.

“‘A’? ‘B’? We'll put down ‘C’ - Not sure. Eight - ‘Is the subject of sex being over-exploited by our mass media?’ That would have to be ‘Yes,’ wouldn't it? Nine -‘Do you sometimes have headaches or backaches after a difficult day?’ Yes, I do indeed.” 

Sherlock loads the gun and spins the chamber.

“Ten - ‘Do you go to sleep easily?’ I'd say so. Eleven - ‘Do you believe in capital punishment for murder?’ Oh, yes. Twelve - ‘In your opinion are social affairs usually a waste of time?’ Heavens, no!”

Sherlock cocks the gun and holds it directly to his head.

“‘Did you enjoy life when you were a child?’ Oh, yes. You were a wonderful baby, Sherlock. Fourteen..."

 

Sherlock pulls the trigger. His chair flies backward and blood sprays onto the carpet. 

“Sherlock, please!” 

Mycroft glances over at him as he lies motionless on the floor. “I hope you have something in that chemistry set of yours that can remove fake blood.” He faces his mother. “Shall we stop for today?”

Sherlock’s mother sighs and waits a good ten seconds before asking, "Fourteen- ‘Should evolution be taught in public schools?’”


	7. And if you want to live high, live high. And if you want to live low, live low

[“If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gmX9fkimAM4]

“Would you care for some?” Martha holds out the hookah.

“Well, I really don't smoke anything anymore.”

“It's all right. It's organic. Just think of it as an herbal soother.” She takes a draw. “It's best not to be too moral, you know. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. As Confucius said, ’Don't simply be good. Make good things happen.’"

“Did Confucius say that?”

“Well— they say he was very wise, so I'm sure he must have.”

“You are the wisest person I know.”

“Me!?”

“Yes. And I haven't lived. I’ve... died a few times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Died! Shot myself in the face once with a popgun and a pellet of blood.”

“How ingenious!”

“That’s...not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Well, they generally scream and run off. Except my mother and my brother. At first my mother sent me to a psychiatrist, very concerned. Now they ignore me. I’ve done it too many times, I suppose.”

“How many?”

“26.”

“Ooh. Tell me about the first time.”

“The first time was an accident. Quite literally. My brother was staying after school for some sort of leadership meeting. Since my mother would be coming a bit later than usual to pick us both up, I thought I'd do a little experimenting at the chemistry lab right next door. They had said I was too young to take Chemistry, but I loved to watch videos of experiments and I followed along with one from memory. I knew what I was doing! Anyway, I got all the chemicals out and began mixing them according to what I had observed— scientifically— carefully measuring the amounts. Well, as expected there was this fizzing sound and this white reactant, thick, like a porridge, began erupting out of the beaker and advancing along the desk, dripping onto the floor. Which was exactly what was supposed to happen. Except it was a bit more than I had anticipated. I did increase the amounts, keeping the proportion. 

“The thing was, it was making an awful mess and I didn’t want anyone to know I had been in there, so I got the hose to try to spray it into the sink. I turned on the water and— POW! It had contained caesium. I wasn’t aware of how reactive it was with water at the time. The video neglected to mention it. There was an explosion, yes, but that wasn't actually the culprit. The breaking glass surprised me, and I jumped backwards and slipped on some of the residue already on the floor. I knocked my head on the tabletop behind me. 

“I was unconscious, briefly, but once I was alert again I just, lay there on the floor. Still. Quiet. Usually, my head is buzzing with all sorts of things, but, this time it was calm and relaxed. I stayed there like that and closed my eyes, and I didn’t want to get up. I heard the teacher next door rush in, along with my brother; they both were afraid to go near me and one of them—probably the teacher—pulled the fire alarm and called 911. 

“The paramedics carefully transferred me onto a stretcher and carried me out. They thought I was unresponsive. My vital signs were steady, but I wouldn’t open my eyes. In actuality, I was deep inside my own head, simply enjoying the calm for the first time I could ever remember. As they carried me out my mother was just arriving, and I suppose it was rather chaotic for them, but I had never felt quite so peaceful. 

“I wanted that feeling back...of just drifting off. I tried to recreate it later, experimenting with different drugs, but I found what worked best was just...well, if not actually being dead, then acting as if I was. It became a _thing_ , I suppose. And while I was coming out of that space, I'd think about how, if I really had died, someone would eventually find me and have to deduce what had happened. 

“Then I’d see all the steps, and it would be so beautiful. It would all fit together perfectly. So, next, I started looking at different ways people die. And recreating it. And just, enjoying thinking about nothing, and when that wore out and I felt myself sliding back into the real world, I thought about the process. So, death now had a tremendous appeal. I learned all about it. Ways to die. Then ways to feign death accurately.”

Martha simply nods. It says more than any words.


	8. Until I found somebody, there was no one I preferred

[“I Think I See the Light”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=4l9a5vIm4so]

 

Sherlock steps over books strewn across the floor. There is an old-fashioned military rifle hanging on one wall of his room and an even older replica of a samurai sword on the opposite one. A chemistry set sits on the far side of the room, with a bottle of Max Factor fake blood alongside it. A box in the corner holds supplies to stage his next death— a fake head and a body harness. 

He takes out the severed head and attempts to attach it to the mannequin which is already dangling on a thick rope, looped around a tension rod he has placed inside the doorway of his closet. The head slips off every time he tries to secure it to the body. He sighs and returns the head to the box, leaving the body suspended. He is considering jumping from a tall building instead, if only he can work out the logistics.

Portraits on the walls of Lon Chaney as “The Phantom of the Opera” and Harry Houdini stare at him in their disappointment, so Sherlock turns off the light, strips down to an undershirt and briefs, and slips into bed.

It’s been a long day, only made tolerable by having spent the evening with Martha. Whatever his mother and brother have planned for him, he is now confident he can hold his own, but he is very far from sleep.

It usually takes a good half hour to warm up under the covers until he is comfortable on cold nights like this one, and he spends the time trying not to think about the frustrations of the day— and fails miserably. 

He is supposed to be working toward his future. Living as an adult. He doesn't feel like a child though. Well, living in your family home, it's hard not to feel a bit like a child, but he has been listening carefully, waiting for some sort of internal voice to tell him what he should do with his life, and when he hears it he knows he will pursue it with a marked determination. What point is there in going to college when you've no idea yet what path you wish to take? It is a waste of time, and he has no use for wasted time. 

He looks down at his body, slim, but still strong. He will gain more broadness in his chest perhaps. Or perhaps not. Either way, he is happy with himself. He runs his hands across his pectorals. They feel solid. It feels good. He runs his other hand down his stomach, then diverts to his inner thighs, then lets his arm fall across his hips. 

Martha wouldn’t find him too skinny. 

The thought surprises him. He’s never much cared what anyone would think about his body, nor has he cared much about anyone else's, but he thinks of her now. He pictures her watching him. Approving of his exploration. Liking what she sees. Wanting to reach out and touch him. And then he’s reaching inside his briefs and running his hand along himself. He is hard, but his skin is soft, and the warmth is radiating outward. 

He wraps his hand around his cock and slides upward, feeling the tension build and then recede once more. He keeps moving, his muscles contracting and relaxing, and he works a steady rhythm until he begins to falter. 

Sherlock rolls onto his stomach, using the friction of the sheets. In this position, he can imagine what it would be like to be on top of someone. He makes a loop with his fingers and focuses on the sensation, but it isn't long before his insecurities insert themselves into the fleeting fantasy of being with another person. This is simply not something he does. Maybe it’s not something he is.

And then he is thinking about Martha again. He pictures her in bed next to him, and she isn't even naked. She is just sitting on the edge of the bed and telling him...what? Something. Something that feels wise and comforting and right. Something that makes him love her. He loves her. He loves her and he wants to please her and she is is telling him once more that he can do whatever he wants. And what he wants is to be with her.

He pushes himself into his hand again, and savors it. He is giving himself over to the sensation, and when he is so lost to it that he doesn’t feel utterly ridiculous, he brushes his lips against the pillow. Lifts both arms to either side of it, as if she is beneath him. 

He ruts into the bedsheets, panics for a moment about the potential for a mess in his bed, quickly reaches for his discarded shirt, places it beneath him, then begins again. It takes no time to return to the rhythm he had previously established. And with one hand beside the pillow and the other forming a circle around his cock, he comes.

He collapses, overwhelmed, and falls into a deep sleep.


	9. Well you roll on roads over fresh green grass

[“Where Do the Children Play?”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=F_vy-eWGKSk]

Martha pulls up to Sherlock’s house in a Prius and gives the horn a quick tap.

“You sold your Corvette?”

Martha smiles. “Oh, that wasn't mine. I borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Well, I did give it back. They weren't using it at the time.”

“And this one too?” She stares at the road ahead of her, but gives a quick nod of acknowledgement. “So you just, get into any car you want and drive off? How can you do that?”

“With these!” She proudly holds up a collection of 30 or so keys on a large ring. “I know that isn’t what you meant. And also, not just any car. I like to try a variety. I'm always looking for the new experience. I think I’ll try a truck next time.”

“The owners—”

“Owners? Isn’t that whole concept a bit absurd? It's a transitory world. We come on the earth with nothing, and we go out with nothing. And if some people are upset because they feel they have some sort of hold on things, then I'm merely acting as a gentle reminder: Here today, gone tomorrow. Don't get too attached.” 

She parks the car at an angle to the curb. “Now come on up. I'll put on the kettle and we'll have a nice, hot cup of tea.”

“Thank you, but after we plant the tree, I have to go.”

“But it's oat straw tea. You've never had oat straw tea, have you?”

“No.”

“Well then. Discussion’s over.”

“Another time.”

“If you insist.” She fishes around in her purse for the keys to her apartment. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a bunch of skeleton house-keys on a ring in there too?”

“All right. I won’t.”

Sherlock sighs as she opens the door. “Okay, where is the tree?”

“In the corner by the kitchen window. It is doing better, but it really needs more sunlight. I thought we’d drive out into the desert.”

“But that’s at least 200 miles!”

“221.”

“I won't be back in time for my appointment.”

“Can’t you reschedule?”

“Well my mother usually— Yes. Yes, I will call and cancel.”

“Good. Now let’s get going.”

Sherlock texts a cancellation from the road as they take off down I-25, chatting about the changing fauna and how happy the plant will be in its new home.

A ways into the drive, and now in a new vehicle, red and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror and Martha pulls over. The Colorado Highway Patrol officer struts up to the Ford F150. “License, please, Ma’am.” 

“Oh, I don’t have one.”

“Come again?”

“I don't have one. I don't believe in them.”

He crouches down and places his head in the window frame. “How long have you been driving?”

“Oh, about two hours, wouldn’t you say, Sherlock? We were hoping to start sooner but, you see, it's rather hard to find a nice truck.”

“Registration.”

“Maybe it's in the glove compartment. Could you look, Sherlock?”

“Isn't this your vehicle?”

“No, no. I just took it.” Martha floors the gas and takes off down the highway, leaving the officer in a cloud of dust. He will radio for assistance, and find the truck has been abandoned at a Love’s outside of Pueblo with nothing in it but a bit of spilled dirt from a potted plant.


	10. I wish I knew, I wish I knew... what makes me, me, and what makes you, you.

[“I Wish, I Wish”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=RX65-5T0O8Q]

 

“There. Now it can finally grow. Breathe. It was miserable stuffed into the corner in that horrible dentist’s office. Not a single beam of natural light.” Martha puts the shovel back in the trunk. “And on our way back, we can look for meteors. You can see them sometimes on the plains. Have you ever seen one, Sherlock?”

They drive until the desert greens up enough to be called the plains. That’s when Martha insists they pull over and look at the treeless horizon. 

“Stars are like old friends. Do you think there is any life up there?”

“Science thinks there isn't. That we are all alone in the universe.”

“We are alone — you and me and everybody. But we can look at those stars and maybe someone on the top of a mountain or across the sea in China is looking at them too. Someone we don't know and most likely will never see — that someone is breathing along with us. And the star-gazers of the past — from peasant to princess — and the star-gazers of the future — all of us breathing and looking up there. We are alone — but look at the stars, and never feel lonely.”

“You should have been a poet.”

“Oh, no. But I should have liked to have been an astronaut. A private astronaut able to just go out and explore. Like the men who sailed with Magellan, I want to see if we really can fall off the edge of the world. Or maybe I should like to be a star itself.”

“Pirates. They navigated by the stars. I wanted to be a pirate once.”

She turns and scrutinizes him. “Yes. Yes, I could see you as a pirate.”

Sherlock smiles.


	11. Then I found my head one day when I wasn't even trying

[“I’m On the Road to Find Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ycqEb8lfic0 ]

 

“Do you have any friends?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

“Well, maybe one.”

“Would you care to talk about this friend?”

“No.”


	12. Well, if you want to sing out, sing out

[“If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gmX9fkimAM4] 

 

“You know what happens after dinner, don’t you?” Martha winks.

Sherlock’s cheeks flush a delicate pink. 

“Dancing!”

“But I don't—”

“Come on. I'll teach you.” Martha crosses the room to a small Bose unit and powers it on. A pop radio station plays. Sherlock winces. 

“I expected something older— more elegant.”

“Old music disconnects you from the present. There's a world outside there and I want to understand it. Appreciate it with all the clarity that comes from the future. Without all the popping and scratching. Anyway, it all comes around again, you know, and that's when you know you're old. Old things are ‘neat’ now. Access to the best graphics engineers can create, but the kids play these eight-bit video games with glitches built in instead. And that’s as it should be. But even I am too young for scratchy Glenn Miller on a victrola. And, also, too old for it as well.”

The song on the radio switches to “Happy” and Martha smiles. “I grew up with The Twist. Which is what’s popular now, see. I’ve had a complete cycle.”

They dance to the music, to whatever finds its way onto the radio. Then Martha stops. “Perhaps, something more formal as well?” She pops in a CD. It’s a waltz. “Such beautiful music.” She offers her hand to Sherlock, an invitation to dance, and he kisses it. 

“And you are beautiful as well.”

A quick blush hits her cheeks and then she leads, showing Sherlock some basic steps. “I do love all kinds of dancing.”


	13. I think I see the light coming to me

[“I Think I See the Light”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=4l9a5vIm4so]

 

Sherlock leans in and kisses her again, this time on the mouth, and she pauses a moment. He hopes she won’t stop to question him. It’s not that it isn’t what he wants...what he’s been wanting for some time now. It’s just that he is hoping the momentum effect will make him less nervous. 

And he is nervous.

Not about whether it is the right thing to do. No. Of that he has no doubts. But whether or not he can do it well. New experiences are unsettling, and he doesn’t generally like them. He prefers expertise. He has researched this, but… 

Martha looks at him, smiles, and walks toward the bedroom. Sherlock follows.

She waits for him to undress first. A test, perhaps. The only hesitation is when he unbuttons his shirt cuffs. The scars on his forearm are still embarrassing. She will certainly notice them. He can only hope she doesn’t say anything. Or maybe she should. Maybe it would be better if he didn't have to dread when she would finally notice them and stop to wonder just how damaged he was. Too damaged for this, maybe.

She pulls her shirt over her head, and glances toward her own arm. “We all have our scars. Some are visible and some aren’t, but we all have them.” He kisses her again. She kisses him back. 

“Just a sec.” She heads to the bathroom and comes back with a bottle of lubricant. “Sometimes, I need a little help.” 

He nods. It’s something he’s already read about but had forgotten, the biological changes that come with age. She is straightforward, so he can be too. 

“What do you like?”

“Nothing inside until I tell you I’m ready. Apart from that, it’s all fine.”

“Okay.”

“And you? What do you like?”

He is surprised by the question. Isn’t he supposed to like everything? At least in theory? “I don’t know.”

“Well you’re going to have to tell me then. If you like it. Or don’t. But I think we can stop the talking now and start the doing.” 

They both smile. They lie down side by side and look at each other first, then Sherlock reaches out and runs his hand along her side, from her shoulder down to her knee. 

“Take as much time as you want. Explore.”

He brings a hand up to her breasts, traces the curve of them gently with a fingertip, and looks at her face to determine if focusing on them more is myth or reality. He decides to ask.

“Yes, it feels terrific, but not so much at first as it will later. At first, here,” she gestures to a spot on her neck, “And here,” on her upper thigh. 

He kisses her neck first, finds he likes this too, then licks and nibbles. She turns so she is on her back; he is on top of her. He realizes he should be noticing the imperfections that come with age. He’d never known these breasts when they were firm, if they ever really were, and it wasn't as if he was witness to her body slowly changing as they both grew old—markers of time well spent together through the years. But they are beautiful. Just as beautiful as they would have been if the two of them had been exactly the same age—because all it is is Sherlock touching Martha. In ways that she loves and wants. That’s all it ever is. Ever should be.

She brushes her fingertips against his chest, and he flutters his eyes for a second or two and then closes them. “Oh. Good, then?” she asks.

“Very,” he replies. 

She does it again, and he files away the new sensation of another’s hand upon his body. He leans forward and buries his face in her neck. He shifts his thigh so it is between hers and rocks slightly as he kisses the edge of her shoulder. “Do you need lubricant for this?”

“No, and you can use more pressure.”

He does.

Sherlock rocks against her, keeping a steady pace, his cock against her right thigh. The sensation is building fast—too fast. He needs to slow down. He really should sl—

Sherlock hangs his head. 

“Why so— Oh! Oh, Sherlock!” She places her hand on his shoulder. “No, together isn’t the point! Besides, you can go another round easily and I can… well, let’s just say I will be fine no matter what. I’m enjoying this right now.”

His face shifts from resigned to determined and he looks for the lubricant. She grabs it first and puts some on his outstretched hand. “Warm it up a bit. I’ll only need one. I think you’ll be able to sense when I’m ready for you, but if you’re concerned it’s too soon, ask.”

Sherlock nods and inserts his index finger slowly, almost solemnly. She shifts toward him. “Angle it up and keep it shallow. Yes, just there…” The sound she makes is somewhere between a moan and a sigh and he wants nothing on this Earth more than to hear it again. To store it for safekeeping in his mind. “If you use a bit more you don’t need to worry about being so gentle.” 

He adds more, but still keeps his movements slow. He watches her breathing increase, her muscles tense, and he leans forward to kiss just above his finger. She takes a deep breath and clutches hard at his shoulder. He likes this too. He continues to kiss and lick and he is as hard as ever now. He remembers what she had said about her breasts feeling better later and reaches up for them now. She bucks and pulses around his finger, cries out. He grins. “Well, now we're even.”

“Come up here,” she says, a little breathless. 

Sherlock slides up her body, comfortable now with the friction between them. She kisses him, and he’s groaning and clutching at her to bring her closer. He looks at her face, caresses her cheek and she nods. “More than ready, if you want to keep going.”

He lines himself up and slides inside more easily than he was expecting, and she wraps her hands around his lower back. Martha draws him even closer. He should have known better, of course, but he’d somehow been ignorant that he could manage to push himself still deeper inside her. Sherlock shifts the angle, and the act of moving forward, of claiming just a tiny bit more of her, feels far better than he had any reason to expect. He pushes in, then moves back, then grabs her hips and pushes forward once more with as much strength as he can muster, grunting as he does so. 

“That’s...oh, just like that, yes!” 

She’s wrapped her legs around him and is pushing him forward as well. He pulls out to move back again and she tells him not to move backward next time— to stay inside her, just...stay. Push forward and stay. And he can feel her grabbing him inside, contracting tightly. 

“I… I can’t—”

“Don’t. This is what I want to feel. You letting go, inside me.” 

That is almost enough, just hearing that spoken. But he keeps going somehow, moving in small increments, as rapidly as he can. It’s tiring, it’s exhilarating, and it’s like nothing else he’s ever felt...and...he calls out her name in a hoarse shout and it’s over. He collapses forward and she holds him against her. 

He looks at her, he flushed and panting, she calm and serene. He wants to ask if he did it right. He knows he shouldn’t ask. It’s a stupid question. And she knows this is on his mind as she looks at him, closes her eyes, and lets her head fall to one side languidly in response. He pulls out slowly and lies beside her, bringing her head to his chest. They stay like that, resting, until they’ve lost track of time. Eventually Martha throws on a robe, and goes to make tea. 

“I’ll make some and bring it back,” she says. “It’s my favorite blend, Russian Caravan. Don’t let the name fool you, it’s nothing like that ‘Russian Tea’ people make with a few cinnamon sticks and Tang. It’s the real thing. Yunnan black tea, together with keemun and lapsang souchong… six months to travel the six-thousand-miles from China to Russia by camel through Mongolia and Siberia. Of course nowadays they just stick it on an airplane, but it’s fun to pretend.”

Sherlock throws on a shirt and heads out of bed to join her in the kitchen just as she is shutting off the whistling kettle upon the stove.

“You normally keep it up there,” he says, gesturing towards a high shelf, “But you brought it down quite recently— about four days ago. You only have it on special occasions.” He grins. “I’m flattered to qualify as a special occasion, but you brought it down for something else.”

“How did you know I save it for something special, and that...well… all of it.”

“Dust is eloquent. You keep it up there,” he gestures toward an empty space on a high shelf. “I can tell not only from the dust still on the lid but also because it is stored far too high that it is not intended for regular use. You've already taken it down, though you hadn’t yet wiped it clean. No moving of furniture to reach it just now, and it wasn’t already down when I came over that first day; I would have noticed the elaborate tin on your countertop. You likely moved it on Monday, when I had my appointment and wouldn’t come up for tea. So you were thinking about tea, but you hadn’t had any. You were saving it. But not for me—not for this— as this was, I would like to think, unanticipated. You wanted it in easy reach for something else special, later.”

“I brought it down to have on my birthday, tomorrow. I didn’t want to have to… Well, I figured while I was thinking about teas I’d bring it down. I was going to wait, but this seemed like a special occasion, too. And why not share it with you now, and have some by myself later.”

“I’d like to visit you on your birthday, Martha.”

She considers it for a moment. “Maybe for dinner. I would prefer to be alone later in the evening.” 

She wipes the dust off the lid, opens it, and puts two teaspoonfuls in the pot. “You know, you have a special talent for figuring these things out. You should use it. With this and your knowledge of chemistry and...well...death...you could be magnificent at forensics. Help families of those who have been killed find some peace.” She begins to cry. “Help them know what happened. Maybe even help find who was responsible, I bet you could do that too.” 

Sherlock looks at her and fights the lump in his throat. “I… never thought you would cry. I thought, in the face of anything, you could always find a way to be happy.”

She strokes his hair as the tears continue to fall.

“Yes. I cry. I cry for them. I cry for you. I cry at the first snow, the completely unnecessary beauty of a rose. I cry when a man tortures his brother... when he repents and begs forgiveness... when forgiveness is refused as well as when it is granted. To cry is to laugh. To laugh is to cry. And the main thing in life, my dearest, is not to be afraid to be human.”

Sherlock brushes the tears from her eyes and kisses her lips delicately, then far less gently. They head back to her bedroom.


	14. I have my freedom, I can make my own rules

[“Miles From Nowhere”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jzplmeMMB84]

“Mother, I … I want to get married.”

“I would also like for you to get married, Sherlock. I’ve heard good things about this dating service that caters to—”

“No, I mean… I mean I’ve found someone and I intend to propose to her. I thought I should let you know.”

“Oh, Sherlock! That’s wonderful! Have you met her in person yet? I’m so excited for you! Of course we will have to have the girl over for dinner first though. That only seems proper. We would love to meet her!”

“Well, we’ve met in person already, yes. We’ve gone out several times.”

“I can’t see when you would have found the time. You’re always going places with that older woman. You haven’t been doing much else.”

Sherlock smiles broadly, folds his arms, and pushes his right foot forward, waiting.

“Oh. Oh, Sherlock. Don’t tell me you’ve… Why that’s just unseemly. People will certainly talk.”

“People will always talk. They do little else. Why should I care what _people_ think. I’m in love. Martha and I are in love and I intend to propose to her tomorrow, and I don’t need your approval or anyone else’s.”


	15. Well if you want to say yes, say yes; and if you want to say no, say no

[“If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gmX9fkimAM4]

 

“Dinner, drinks, and then a little something,” Sherlock takes a tiny box out of his suit pocket and places it upon the table, “which I hope will make you very happy.” 

“Oh, I am happy, Sherlock. Ecstatically happy. I couldn't imagine a lovelier farewell.”

“Farewell?”

“Why yes. It's my eightieth birthday.”

“But you're not going anywhere, are you?”

“Oh yes, Dear. I took the pills an hour ago. I should be gone by midnight.”


	16. I don't want no fight and I haven't got a lot of time

[“Trouble”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=T27IMxQ7LeI]

 

The ambulance siren and flashing lights break the quiet of the peaceful night. Martha frowns.

“Hold on, Martha! We'll be there soon.”

“Hold on? Oh, Sherlock, how absurd. It’s time to let go.”

“Please. For me. I love you!” He says it once more, quietly. “I love you.”

“Oh! That's wonderful, Sherlock,” she says, weakening. “Go… and love some more.”

They are silent on the ride to the hospital, Sherlock holding her hand and trying to keep his composure, and Martha closing her eyes and resting on her stretcher.

The admission nurse asks her name and age and Mrs Martha Louise Hudson states she is 80 today. The nurse wishes her many happy returns. She manages a smile, and says, “No, I don’t think so.” 

As Sherlock tries to calmly explain she is dying— an overdose of sleeping pills, Martha interrupts him. “Not dying, actually. I'm changing. Winter to spring. Sometimes you have to know when to walk off the stage. While you still can walk off on your own two feet.” She turns to face him. “Farewell, Sherlock. It’s been all such fun.”

As she is wheeled back to a treatment room through the double doors, Sherlock yells after her, “Your life is not your own! Keep your hands off it! I wanted to marry you! To spend whatever time we had left together! Don’t you understand?”

The doors close, and he is left to pace the waiting area.

***

A doctor comes out, shaking his head.

Sherlock leaves, still clutching Martha’s purse.


	17. You can make it all true. And you can make it undo

[“If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gmX9fkimAM4]

 

Sherlock drives.

Sherlock drives impossibly fast, swerves around a blind corner and off the road—up to the clifftop where they had stopped to look at the stars. How could that have been just a few days ago? How could that be possible?

He unbuckles his seatbelt and floors the gas.

There is silence as the hearse-like car lunges over the cliff, crashing upon the rocks below.

Sherlock watches it fall.

From the top of the cliff he watches it consume itself in flames, calls the fire department (no need to risk it catching) and spins away from the carnage. He spins again, and again, until it becomes something like a dance. And then he’s dancing— a waltz, arms extended into open air upon the hillside. 

Dancing with a certain controlled abandon.

Dancing, as the stars come out to light his way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this, and soecial thanks to Pipmer and Chriscalledmesweetie for betaing! Also, much love to the AD crew for their support (and especially to Vulgarweed for our discussions on aging women and their struggle to retain a sexual presence)  
> i would love to hear from readers who know the movie as well as those who didn’t. Your opinions are valuable to me...and thank you!


End file.
